It's a mood thing
by Zora Arian
Summary: Post-TRF, one-shot. Looks like Molly's blanket has another use, one she's not happy about.


**Managed to get some time off from studying to type this. Hope you like it :DDD**

As soon as Sherlock entered Molly's bedroom, he closed the door and collapsed onto the queen-sized bed (sentiment; gift from favourite deceased aunt), undoing his scarf. Not caring for even a second that he was nowhere near 221B Baker Street, he toed off his shoes and unbuttoned the dress shirt he was wearing. He also took off his trousers, which he did reluctantly sitting up, and took off his last article: his boxers. Throwing all onto the left side of the bed, where they landed on the room's wooden floor, he laid down onto the bed and covered his (-cough-well-defined naked-cough-) body with the blanket provided. He had hardly ever felt this exhausted, hitting a record of 5 1/4 days without sleep, second to his highscore of a week. The faint smell of Molly's lavander shampoo on her pillow, coupled with his exhaustion, eventually lulled him into an easy sleep.

/

Sherlock woke up to a thundering headache (courtesy of the fall) and a dark sky outside the windows of an unfamiliar room, which his mind, clearing the fogginess inside, finally telling him it was Molly's bedroom. Not bothering to dress himself, he wrapped the blanket around his naked body and padded towards the built-in bathroom, intending to use it. The walk elicited in him a jaw-breaking-worthy yawn, when the door opened.

/

Molly told herself she was being kind, offering her room to a (still) arrogant and selfish detective, whose attitude remained the same even after the fall down St. Bart's roof. She knew the bruises he attained hurt, and the couch was not one place for his body to recover. But after he went up the stairs and she heard her door shut closed, she immediately found a problem.

"How am I going to bathe?"

Her eyes went wide at that huge problem and she turned to face the general direction of her room from where she was sitting on the couch, which became her makeshift bed for the night, and possibly many nights later on. Her face flushed a furious red as she thought of her bathing in the bathroom, Sherlock on the other side, separated by only a thin opaque screen door. She could not trust that door to be capable of separating them!

"Wait, wait! What in the world am I thinking of? Solution, Molly! Solution NOW!" she scolded herself, slapping both sides of her temples, trying to nudge her brain into problem-solving mode.

Since she was the only occupant in her flat (besides Toby, of course) for the majority…okay, fine, **ALL** the time, she had never felt the need to build a shower in the kitchen's bathroom. Besides, it had saved her money, which she had needed badly at that point of time. But now, with another guest who was staying over for God knows how long, she wished she had loaned some money from the bank for a shower in the kitchen's bathroom.

Molly sighed audibly when the solution appeared in her head: bathe in the early morning, when Sherlock's asleep. She had no intention of waking and kicking him out of the bed (not literally!) when she wanted to shower, for she usually change in the bedroom. More space than the cramped bathroom for sure. She decided, then and there, that she would bathe in the wee hours in the morning, and change in the bathroom. She sighed again. "This is certainly going to be one routine I have to be accustomed to."

/

At 6.13am, Molly finished shampooing her hair and brought her head down the shower, which was pouring out warm water.

She did not have the guts to bathe the night Sherlock became her temporary flatmate, so she had slept without bathing, only washing her hands and face under the water tap in the kitchen, in an attempt to remove most of the stickiness and dust from the day. Her alarm rang at 6am, which startled her awake, and she immediately punched the 'cancel' button, in fear that Sherlock would stir and she would not have the chance to bathe. She was going to work at about 8, and had no idea of what Sherlock's regular wake-up time was, so to be on the safe side, no way was she going to miss this shower.

Molly climbed the staircase leading to her room slowly, taking care not to step on the creaks and cracks that could awaken her sleeping occupant. She reached her room's door (finally! It seemed like hours had passed), took a calming breath in, and opened it, to reveal a curled-up-on-his-side Sherlock on her bed. His back was to her, so she could not see his serene sleeping face, but she did not mind, thoroughly satisfied in just imagining how it'd look like. She tiptoed towards the bathroom, grabbing her towel on the way, and closed the bath door as quietly as she could. Then, stripping down her clothes, she took her much needed bath.

Unbeknownst to her, Sherlock's clothing was on the floor, but was unfortunately at the other side of the bed; the one facing the wall, not the room door. So she definitely did not realise he was stark naked underneath the blanket.

/

Molly dried her hair with her towel then brought it around her small body. She much rather use a towel than a bathrobe, because it certainly do not have knots she had to untie, which usually ended up a dead knot, sometimes causing her to go to the extremes and cut off the strings, and forcing her to buy a new bathrobe. She instinctively brought out her hand to the left, knowing that was where she had initially left her towel, and now her clo-

Wait. Where's her clothes?

Molly panicked for a moment and searched frantically about the tiny room, locating no signs whatsoever of her clothing. Great, reminder: bring clothes into bathroom, she chided herself, shaking her head to her forgetfulness and opened the door.

To be greeted with a blanket-clad, yawning Sherlock.

He looked surprised upon seeing her when he stopped yawning. Then, with his free hand, he gently took her arm, the one not keeping the towel on her body, and changed places with her. "I want to use the loo, so move," he said during the change.

She turned around to him, whose large frame almost covered the whole length of her doorway. "But-but I need to change!"

He gave her a withering look before suggesting, "You can change in here," he gestured to the interior of her bedroom. "You obviously prefer this to the bathroom."

"How long will you take?"

"Oh," he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door, "at most: 2 minutes 58 seconds."

"Wh-what? But I take much longer just finding my clothes!"

"Then you're gonna have to wait," his muffled voice called out.

She groaned in defeat and made her way to her closet. She then fully noticed the absence of a blanket on her bed, and her eyes roamed down to the bed's left side.

Where all of Sherlock's clothing were strewned about.

Molly felt like fainting when the situation became crystal clear: Sherlock had abandoned his clothing and slept naked, in which she saw him, still naked, clad in nothing but her blanket.

Her blanket. **Her blanket!**

Her red blanket, which was extremely expensive; taking up to 3/12 of her pay, due to its sky-high quality.

And now Sherlock's clad in it, making it some kind of substitute apparel!

She whipped her head round when she heard the bath door open to see said man walking towards her, amazingly with grace as well, for the blanket was heavy, by her standards.

"Y-you are…not…" she stammered out, her shy nature immediately taking dominance over her urge to reprimand him, while looking resolutely down at the part of the blanket that made contact with the floor.

Sherlock looked down at the top of her wet hair, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw his clothes on the floor. She must have noticed them, he thought, and for the first time in a long while, he smiled, then turned it into a smirk.

"Yes, I'm not. It's a mood thing, like you tying your hair into a tight bun in frustration when you discover a mistake in your autopsy report. That sort of thing," he said, shrugging his broad shoulders.

The movement caused the upper portion of the blanket to slip down, revealing his shoulder and collarbone. Molly felt her heart rate increase at the sight.

He then stalked out of the room, calling over his bare shoulder, "I need food, Molly. Hungry!", and disappeared down the stairs.

Molly rushed over to close the door and felt her heartbeat slowing down. She gave a small smile at Sherlock being some sort of an overgrown child, and she knew times would be hard in the next few days, but she was excited, wanting to overcome them all.

She rushed again, this time to her closet, and picked out a few items to wear: her bra and knickers, of course, a light yellow top and grey sweatpants. Not creative, or matching for that matter, but they were comfortable.

Just as she put on her pants, the smell of something burnt wafted into her nose. It definitely could not be Toby; although he was a smart cat, he could not possibly be clever enough to turn on the gas stove.

That leaves only someone else.

Molly threw on her top in record speed and slammed open the door, rushing down the staircase. "SHERLOCK! THAT BETTER NOT BE MY BLANKET YOU'VE BURNT!"


End file.
